


I Have No Strength From Which To Speak

by BeautyGraceOuterSpace



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Attempted Tongue Removal, Blood, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Crew as Family, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Torture, Injury, Injury Recovery, Major Character Injury, Medical Procedures, Mild Gore, Mutilation, Nerve Damage, Pain, Shock, Tarsus IV, mentions of tarsus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2019-07-28 12:23:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 15,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16241552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeautyGraceOuterSpace/pseuds/BeautyGraceOuterSpace
Summary: "It would appear your Captain needs a lesson in minding his tongue."A simple negotiations mission takes a wrong turn when Jim misinterprets the situation, and he pays for it immensely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Some notes before we begin... this is a dark fic. Very dark. Please read and note the tags before you decide to read it, and decide if any of the material will be triggering or upsetting to you in any way. I have done my best to be thorough. If you feel that there is a tag I have missed, please inform me so I can add it immediately. 
> 
> As always, a huge thanks to raisinsforsunday for reading it repeatedly and helping me edit and get it consumer ready. 
> 
> That being said, enjoy part one.

The air was thick with smoke, acrid and foul. The dual suns of the planet rose hazy and red behind the grey clouds rising from the scorched fields. Raising a hand to his shirt collar, Jim covered his nose and mouth with the thin fabric, squinting to see the city below through the thick plumes.

This was not what they had been expecting when they were asked to beam down for “peaceful negotiations”.

This was a warzone.

The smoldering remains of the nearby crops sent a pang of familiar unease through Jim as he scanned the horizon, taking in the rubble of buildings and the decimated tree line in the distance.

Clearly, their help could have been used sooner.

_The revolution is successful..._

 

A swift smack to the back of his head drew his attention from the ruins before him-- and the memories they invoked-- and he turned indignantly to be faced with Bones, a breathing mask covering his lower face and an identical device extended to Jim.

“Mask up, idiot,” he commanded. “I told you on the ship, we don’t know what’s in these fumes.”

_But survival depends on drastic measures._

Jim did as he was told with a roll of his eyes, tightening the straps to secure the mask and relishing the clean air that flowed immediately.

Spock crouched, masked and examining his tricorder, several feet away. Uhura, closer to Jim, murmured, “What happened here?”

“Nothin’ good,” Bones muttered back, crossing his arms over his chest, watching their small security detail take in the sight. The youngest, Ensign Arlow, had paled dramatically upon seeing it.

“Spock, got anything?”

Spock rose.“Negative, Captain,” he replied. “The atmospheric interference is not allowing for clear readings at this time. The gas appears to be harmless, but it would be prudent to wear the masks as a precautionary measure.”

“Better safe than sorry,” Jim agreed. “Got it.”

Surveying the grim horizon a moment longer, he began making his way down the steep, rocky slope towards the relatively undamaged buildings below. They had been told a delegation would meet them to escort them to the high ruler to begin negotiations.

Everything about this place-- the smoke, the burning fields, the ruins-- was entirely too reminiscent of a time and a place that he would rather forget. He was eager to put them out of sight.

_Your continued existence represents a threat to the well-being of society._

He stumbled slightly on a loose rock and skidded few feet down the hill, but managed to maintain his balance. Ignoring the concerned looks from his crew, he turned to Uhura, offering a hand to help her over the now loose and crumbling earth he had disturbed. Planting his feet, he did the same for Bones. Spock nodded his thanks at his proffered hand, but made his own way around to more solid footing followed by the security team.

The crew a few paces ahead, Bones grabbed Jim’s arm.

_He knows, he always knows-- he knows me too well--_

Jim was surprised, then, when Bones merely asked a simple question.

“Jim,” he jerked his chin in the direction of the smoke, “what are we walkin’ into here? This was supposed to be a communications drop, nothin’ more.”

Jim paused, angling himself towards Bones as he prepared his answer. His head was swimming; he felt lightheaded and off balance. He hadn’t been expecting this, none of them had. He knew there had been skirmishes, but he hadn’t known the sheer scale of the violence until he saw it first hand.

It was hitting him harder than he had expected.

A shortage of resources had led to tensions and eventual warfare between the two alien tribes residing on the planet, the Cri’lon and the Tyveck. Due to the proximity of a Federation colony a few hundred miles south, Starfleet regulation mandated an attempt at reconciliation between the alien races. After several days in orbit, and hours upon hours of pre-negotiation, Jim had been granted a meeting with the high council of the Cri’lon in the hopes of establishing the crew of the _Enterprise_ as a neutral party for communications. So far, it wasn’t exactly going as smoothly as he had hoped.

_Images flooded his head-- not of this place, but of a place far away; half a generation ago-- but the same nonetheless. Burning buildings, a mountain of spoiled food set ablaze. And the dead--_

Jim blinked hard against the intrusive memories

He opened his mouth to reply; to reassure Bones that, while unexpected, the situation was manageable. That they had anticipated some signs of the conflict and that they hadn’t been attacked yet, so clearly there was hope that they could pull this off.

What came out was a soft, “It looks like Tarsus.”

Jim blinked rapidly, his mouth falling open slightly in shock over what he’d just said. That wasn’t what he’d meant to say _at all_.

“Jim--”

“Sorry, I don’t-- I don’t know where that came from,” Jim apologized, bringing a hand up to rub at the ache forming beneath his left eyebrow. This was going to go downhill fast if he couldn’t get it together. What the hell was wrong with him?

“Jim,” Bones began hesitantly; this was what he had been expecting when Bones stopped him in the first place. “Are you gonna be able to do this?”

“Yeah,” Jim assured him, keeping his tone light, “yeah, I’m good just…” he coughed lightly, dropping his hand from his brow. “Forget I said anything.”

Bones looked skeptical, but didn’t comment.

“It’ll be fine,” Jim said confidently. “Neither race has any conflict with us. We’re just here as-- helpful mediators. What could go wrong?”

Bones rolled his eyes. “Thought I told you to stop sayin’ that.”

“And I thought I told you,” Jim said with a laugh, turning to make his way after the rest of their party-- and trying not to dwell on the fact that his equilibrium was thrown way off as he did so-- “I don’t do well with instruction.”

He only hoped he’d be able to clear his head before they met with their escort. He needed to be able to focus, keep it together and play the part of a professional and highly trained negotiator.

Lives counted on it.

They caught up with the others, moving as fast as they dared down the unsteady slope. Once their party reached the bottom of the hill, they saw ahead a large stone archway leading into a large open area. At the end sat a large and intricately carved building: this was where the high ruler held council.

Beneath the arch stood two Cri’lon warriors. They towered over the Starfleet officers, spears clutched in their hands.

Jim had seen pictures of the Cri’lon people during their debrief, but it was nothing compared to seeing them in person. They were large, broad in shoulder and head, and their faces were oddly blank with the absence of noses, high curving bones forming a ridge like pattern down the center of their foreheads instead. Their eyes, set far apart and easily three inches in height, were accentuated by a slightly smaller set directly beneath, and all four eyes blinked in unison; their thin, vertical pupils shifting and constricting in the light.

Their ankle joints sat high up the leg, equine in the way it bent backward and formed an elongated arch of the foot, leaving them standing primarily on the balls of their feet. Their crude leather garments implied their status as lower members of the royal household.

“Captain Kirk?” the taller of the two inquired, her consonants halting and released with a click as she spoke in standard instead of her own tongue. A long, gnarled scar curled through her right eyes, only just missing the lid of each.

“Yes,” Jim replied, stepping forward and pointedly avoiding staring, focusing very hard on the upper set of eyes. “Thank you for coming to meet us. We appreciate the hospitality of--”

“This way,” the smaller Cri’lon interrupted, turning abruptly and stalking away with his counterpart towards the entrance of the stone citadel.

Uhura waited until they were out of reasonable ear shot before whispering as they followed, “I told you, hospitality isn’t exactly one of their strong suits. They’re a very… abrupt race. If it wastes time, it isn’t worth doing. Pleasantries included.”

“Duly noted,” Jim replied, feeling his headache worsen by the moment, and pinching the bridge of his nose against the dull pain. This was going to be exhausting. “Anything else I should be reminded of?”

“The high ruler will be seated in the center,” she said.

“Center of what?”

“Everything I read just said ‘center’. I’m hoping it will be clear when we see the room,” she replied with a small shrug.

“Jim,” Bones whispered from just behind Jim’s left shoulder. “You feeling ok?”

“Indeed, Captain,” Spock cut in quietly, “if you are feeling unwell, perhaps I should--”

Jim opened his mouth to reply, to reassure them both that he had a minor headache, but nothing more. Some lightheadedness-- and ok, maybe he was feeling a little dizzy and couldn’t stop thinking about Tarsus-- but the warriors had reached the double doors and swung them open with ease, standing to the side and indicating that the crew should enter.

So he did.

The crew followed, filing in after Jim and approaching the large gathering of Cri’lon council members seated adjacent. Seated dead center on a raised and ornate seat was who Jim could only assume-- based on Uhura’s reminder-- was the high ruler. Her dark hair was twisted into small but intricate braids looping across her scalp and over and around the long points of her ears set high behind her cheekbones, made all the wider by the lack of a nose. Her narrow eyes were entirely filled by the deep brown of her irises and the thin line of her vertical pupils; there was no white showing, as with the rest of her race. Her long, thin fingers rested against the arms of her seat, her sharp nails filed thin into claws-- or were they claws? A quick glance around confirmed that yes, each of the the Cri’lon had the same menacing fingertips. Their escorting party had been wearing gloves; he hadn’t noticed before.

How had he not noticed before? He usually caught these things. Being unobservant was a luxury he couldn’t afford; he’d learned that early. So how had he missed it?

After a long moment of terse, uncomfortable silence, Jim looked to Uhura, who nodded minutely, eyes on the woman seated before him. With her confirmation, he stepped forward and bowed slightly to the braided Cri’lon.

“Thank you for allowing us an audience. We hope to be effective mediators between the Cri’lon and Tyveck races and to end the--” he paused to choose his words carefully, “tense relationship between you and bring peace.”

At his nod, Uhura stepped forward and began to translate, repeating his words in Cri’lon, but she was cut off quickly.

“We have no need,” the Cri’lon woman said, her Standard halting and heavily accented, but understandable, “for wasting time with repetition.”

Uhura faltered only briefly before nodding respectfully and stepping back next to Spock, leaving Jim at the front.

“Of course,” Jim said diplomatically, “forgive us. We meant no offense.”

Her eyes narrowed impatiently and her long, claw like fingernails clenched tightly around the arms of her chair, leaving small grooves in the wood. “You continue to waste my time, yet you have not told me your name, human.”

Jim smiled nervously, hoping to rectify his mistake. “Apologies again. I am Captain James T. Kirk, representing the United Federation of Planets, high ruler--”

“I am Jurgheree,” she replied abruptly. “Why do you speak to me, Captain?”

A sudden wave of dizziness hit, and his headache ramped up a few notches as he closed his eyes and tried to stop the nausea that came with it.

“Trick question?” he asked before he could stop himself. God, his mouth was getting away from him today. He saw his crew visibly react to his disrespectful reply out of the corner of his vision. Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, he continued, “Forgive me-- as I said, I speak to you in the hopes of bringing peace.”

Jurgheree eyed him thoughtfully. “Tell me why we should listen to you, Captain?”

“I merely wish to provide a neutral party to help negotiate the relations between yourselves and the Tyveck--”

“For the sake of your human colony, no doubt,” interjected a Cri’lon to Jurgheree’s right.

_Your lives mean slow death to the more valued members of the colony._

Jim hesitated, only for a moment, but it was enough for Spock to chime in: “While the safety and well-being of the colony is, indeed, a concern, the Captain does not lie when he says we wish to establish peace between your races. For the good of all.”

Jurgheree’s upper eyes scanned over the crew as her lower set remained fixed on Jim.

“And what,” she asked slowly, “do you propose?”

Jim released a sigh of relief. Things had gotten very tense, very quickly, and he was feeling worse by the minute; the sooner he could wrap this up the better. “Allow us to establish a relationship with the Tyveck, on your behalf. We could present them with a peace offering--”

“And why,” growled a short Cri’lon in green robes, “should we be the ones to offer peace? Those grimalkins have done nothing to deserve--”

“Peace,” Jim interrupted, “is not always about what is deserved.”

The Cri’lon’s eyes widened in shock. “You speak very boldly, Captain, for one with no power here.”

_Therefore, I have no alternative but to sentence you to death._

Jim heard Bones muttering sarcastically behind him, and spoke loudly to cover the sound, “I mean no offense, council, I only wish--”

“We will not be the first to offer peace!” someone to the right yelled. Jim’s head was pounding. “The Tyveck struck first, and as such, they must be the ones to--”

“And yet you come to us!” another interrupted. “Asking us to grovel like dogs!”

One by one, the council each chimed in with their disapproval, their voices growing louder in their indignance.

Jim couldn’t take it much longer. He felt lightheaded and off balance, and his stomach was beginning to roll in time with the pounding of his head.

“But your excellency,” he called, looking pointedly at Jurgheree, his voice echoing in the loud room as he raised it to be heard above the cacophony of voices, “surely an agreement could be reached that would be mutually beneficial to both parties?”

Jurgheree’s lips pulled back in a sneer, her pupils narrowing as she focused her gaze on him. “I would advise you to keep silent, Captain,” she snarled-- a warning-- “regarding matters you do not understand."

“Kirk--” he heard Uhura softly warn.

Jim barreled on, stepping forward and stumbling slightly as his equilibrium lurched violently. He paused only for a moment, pointedly ignoring the hushed murmurs of, “Captain--” from his crew and shrugging off Bones’ hands as he reached out and attempted to pull him back.

“Jim--”

"Surely,” he continued, keeping his tone as placating as possible, “the federation could assist with the progression of negotiations with-”

“Silence!” roared a voice from behind them. Jim turned to see the older Cri’lon seated in the far corner rise slowly to his feet, his black robes unfurling and falling around him drapes and folds. As he stood, so did the rest, all rising urgently and bowing their heads respectfully.

He was tall, easily eight feet high, with hair so grey it shone silver in the light. His lower eyes were cloudy and dull, but it was clear he was not blind. His pupils remained dark and clear, thinner than Jurgheree’s, nearly non-existent in the expanse of his foggy irises, giving him a disconcerting look.

His glinting eyes fell on Jim, scanning their party with a narrowing of his eyes.

“Uhh, guys,” Jim whispered, trying as hard as he could not to move his lips or draw any further attention as his security officers were glanced over. “What’s happening?”

Uhura, eyes fixed on the old Cri’lon surveying them, lowered herself to her knees, arms spread wide in supplication. Spock and Bones quickly followed suit as Jim watched in confusion. The others nearly tripped over themselves in their haste to follow. “Captain,”  she murmured back, the slightest tremor in her voice, “I think I made a mistake.”

“What do you--”

A hard shove between his shoulder blades sent Jim crashing to his knees as well, just catching himself with his palms on the rough stone before he met it face first. The front of his mask tapped against the rough floor, knocking it slightly off kilter. His head spun at the shift, disorienting him and turning his stomach. He swallowed back the nausea; they were in deep enough shit without him puking before the council.

“On your knees before High Ruler Hakei, Captain!” growled the Cri’lon who had pushed him, lowering his own head in a bow as he spoke.

_High ruler? But Jurgheree-- oh. Shit._

Glancing up through his lashes, Jim did a quick count of the Cri’lon to the left of the elder, and to the right. Exactly seven on each side.

The high ruler sits in the center…

Moving slowly so as not to alarm anyone-- everyone was very tense right now, and he did _not_  want to put out the dumpster fire that would occur if someone misfired right now-- Jim mimicked Uhura’s posture, spreading his arms wide and bowing low over his knees, his hands beginning to shake as whatever was affecting him coupled with the stress of the situation.

He could feel the eyes of his crew on him as they watched nervously from the corners of their vision, bowing before the approaching Cri'lon.

Licking his lips nervously he began, “Your excellency, my apologies. I did not intend--”

“I asked for _silence_ , Captain, did I not?”

Jim hesitated briefly before replying, “Yes.”

“And yet,” continued Hakei, his vowels elongated and punctuated by the clicking accent of his consonants, “you speak.”

Jim remained silent, cursing his mistake, as the high ruler stalked slowly forward, limping heavily on his left leg, until he stood just before Jim. The black edge of his robe, embroidered with golden thread in swirls and loops, fell just into Jim’s line of sight, which was rapidly fading into a narrow tunnel. Maybe he should have worn the mask to beam down after all. He really needed to get better at listening to Bones, he was always annoyingly right.

His ears were ringing. A large clawed hand snatched up a fistful of his shirt, just below the collar, and hauled him bodily forward. His knees dragged against the stone as he clutched at Hakei’s wrist, desperate for balance. Behind him, he heard the protests of his crew as they were swiftly surrounded and blocked from reaching him.

 _Your execution is so ordered_ …

Shaking his head against the sudden movement, his vision spinning, he met the eye of the Cri’lon high ruler glaring down at him.

"It would appear that your captain needs a lesson in minding his tongue."

* * *

  _Pain._

It hurt. It hurt and it was sharp and strong and hot and why did his mouth hurt? Why did it hurt so bad? Where was Bones? He could make it stop but it _wasn’t_ stopping and _why_ did he hurt and--

“Jim-- Jim, you have to stop moving--”

The thick, metallic stench of blood lingered. Where was it coming from? Why did he _hurt_?

_Pain._

“Christ, he’s not hearing me-- put him under-- I don’t care just do it--”

Under? Under what? He didn’t want to go, he wanted to know why his mouth hurt and why that smell wouldn’t go away, lingering just under his nose and not leaving.

A sharp prick of pain in his hand and he whimpered and tried to pull away-- no more, no more pain-- but the sound hurt worse and sound shouldn’t hurt and it hurt so bad and why was his mouth so empty and--

_Pain._

He made an ungodly sound, low and pitiful and louder than he meant but his mouth wasn’t cooperating and he could form the words and all he wanted was to ask Bones why this was happening and--

“Jim, stop. _Stop._ You have to let me fix it, and you have to stop moving.”

But the smell and the pain and the strange emptiness of his mouth and the pain, the pain, the _pain._

And he retched.

“Shit, get him up, _now--”_

Hands on him, raising him up and turning him on his side, and liquid pouring out of him, catching and pooling in his too empty mouth, thick on his teeth and warm on his gums and why couldn’t he taste it? The tangy, sharp scent of blood as he heaved and it _hurt_ and the emptiness was still there and--

  _Pain._

Loud in his ear: “Where’s that anesthesia?”

_Pain._

Rumbling against his skin: “It’s ok, Jim, it’s ok.”

_Pain._

Promises through the fog: “I gotcha, I’m gonna do everything I can.”

_Pain._

To the others in the room: “Prep him for surgery.”

_Pain._

Darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

They had cut out his tongue.

_Jesus Christ._

In one swift movement they had dragged Jim forward, guards closing in to hold them back, ripped off his oxygen mask, held him down and _cut out his tongue._

It barely took them ten seconds.  

Len could only stare in shock-- his own screams nearly drowning out the strangled sounds of pain Jim made-- as he fought desperately against the Cri’lon holding him back. He could have sobbed with relief when a sudden and precise phaser blast felled the high ruler, shocking the rest of the council enough to put pause to their sick ritual.

As Hakei fell, he dragged Jim down with him and Jim collapsed to his hands and knees, curling into himself as blood poured from his mouth. Len couldn’t hear the sounds Jim made over the chaos of phaser fire and the multiple cries of alarm and sounds of the scuffle, but he could see his shoulders heaving with too quick breaths. He was going into shock.

With as much strength as he could muster, he flung his elbow back, knocking the now distracted guard off balance and loosening his grip enough that Len could wrench his arm free. He raced to Jim’s side, trusting Spock and their security detail to take care of the few remaining conscious as he fell to his own knees in front of Jim’s huddled form. Completely ignoring the fallen figure of the high ruler behind him, he ripped open his medkit, donning gloves as fast as the adrenaline pumping through him would allow, hands immediately closing on a packet of sterile gauze and placed a hand on the back of Jim’s neck.

Jim flinched violently, a horrible, wet sound of protest escaping him as he clenched his teeth shut, blood pouring through the gaps and crevices and staining them a sickly red. Good; at this point his biggest concerns were bleeding out or drowning in his own blood. Better to keep it falling out than going down, but he had to get pressure on the wound, and fast.

“It’s me, kid,” he assured quickly, and Jim relaxed minutely under his hand. “It’s me-- Jim, you have to open your mouth.” Jim tried to shake his head, but Len clasped the nape of his neck more firmly. “No, don’t move too much, you’re going into shock. I need you to do this, Jim, and I need you to do it _now_.”

With an awful whimper of pain, Jim complied. It was only through years of medical experience that Len refrained from visibly reacting with horror; it was brutal and visceral, not carefully done, raw and bleeding freely. By some stroke of luck, they had interrupted in time to stop full amputation; a deep and jagged cut ran the width of Jim’s tongue save for a small section to the left side.

He wouldn’t have to attempt full reattachment, at least. The nerve damage though-- he’d deal with that later.

He quickly and carefully packed gauze against the wound, murmuring apologies through Jim’s painful protests.

“Bite down on that, kid,” he instructed. “Hold that in place for me.”

As Len spoke he retrieved his communicator with one hand, the other quickly retrieving a sedative from his kit. Hands shaking and fading fast, Jim struggled to do as he was told, livid bruising already forming around his wrists from the Cri’lon’s long fingered hands.

“McCoy to Enterprise!”

“Enterprise,” came the answering response from the ship.

Recognizing the voice, he called out, “Sulu, seven to beam up-- _now_. And tell Chapel to prep a surgery bay.”

“Surgery?” Sulu sounded concerned, tone verging on frantic. “What happened?”

“No time,” Len cried, “just do it!”

“Locking on your location now,” the helmsman replied. Len threw the communicator into his kit.

As Len pressed the hypo against Jim’s neck, all the while repeating a soothing back and forth motion on his upper back with his free hand, he felt the familiar sensation of dematerialization.

_Not fucking soon enough._

 

* * *

 

  
Spock watched with an odd sense of detachment as Jim’s rapidly flagging form was quickly deposited onto a stretcher and rushed to medical. A small hand on his arm alerted him to Nyota’s presence at his side, but his gaze remained fixed on the doors through which the team of nurses and medical staff had departed, a bloody and nearly unconscious Jim between them and Dr. McCoy, his hands stained but steady, barking orders for them to move.

“Spock,” Nyota’s voice shook slightly as she clutched at his sleeve. “Spock, we should--”

“I will see to the captain,” he replied, his own voice foreign to his ears through the dull roar that had overtaken his senses.

“Spock,” she repeated, a twinge of sorrow in her tone. “There’s nothing we can do right now. Let Leonard work-- he’ll do what he can.”

“I will see to the captain,” he repeated, because as first officer it was his job to do so, and to see to the well-being of the crew in Jim's absence. Turning to face her-- or at least, her approximate direction, his gaze seemed to be fixed at a point just beyond her left shoulder; curious-- he said quietly, “Are you injured?”

She paused only a moment before replying, “No. No, I’m alright. Are you--?”

“You should rest,” he instructed. “This day has been trying for us all.”

Turning, he let his feet guide him to MedBay. He vaguely registered Nyota releasing a soft cry behind him as he left the transporter room.

Medical was in chaos, empty save for the bed occupying Jim’s form but bustling with activity as Doctor McCoy barked orders and nurses hurried to comply. A quick glance revealed to him that Jim was still conscious, and he felt a strange pang in his chest at the realization. Surely he was in pain.

He watched as McCoy took Jim’s face between his hands, carefully avoiding his mouth, and spoke words of encouragement, hoping to soothe Jim’s restless agitation. It was to no avail; the captain continued writhing on the biobed, horrid gurgling sounds escaping him as he voiced his agony.

Spock stood frozen in the door as the doctor called for anesthesia.

Catching sight of him in the doorway, McCoy called out, “Spock, you shouldn’t be here. There’s nothing you can do just--”

He could not tear his eyes from the blood stained lower half of Jim’s face. This should not have occurred. As first officer, it was his job to see to the well-being of the captain-- and he had failed to do so until it was too late.

Illogical; there was nothing he could have done to prevent this, surely.

Or was there?

Had he not noticed that the captain seemed to be unwell prior to meeting with the high council? Had he not asked Jim himself if he was alright?

And yet, he had not received an answer, nor had he insisted on one as Jim had turned and strode confidently into the room before them. Had he only insisted…

Again, illogical; Jim had done nothing to warrant such treatment. His behavior was irrelevant. The Cri’lons had proven to be an unexpectedly barbaric race, and they had been unprepared for the sheer magnitude of their impatience for the trivial.

He should have compiled more research.

Again, illogical-- the Cri’lons did not seem to follow even the simplest of documented rules about their culture. They had truly believed the high ruler to be seated in the center of the room. But should he not have realized the mathematical significance of seven seated on either side of the elder tucked away towards the back? Symmetry was one of the most basic of visual forms--

“Spock!”

He startled slightly as he realized that McCoy was calling his name, his tone suggesting that he had been doing so for several moments. McCoy looked him over with a clinical eye, gloved hands still holding a compress of gauze to Jim’s lips as he was prepped for surgery.

“Christ, not you too,” he murmured, and it was only Spock’s sensitive hearing that allowed him to pick up on the words. “Donovan,” McCoy summoned a nurse to his side. “Get him to sit down before he falls down-- I think he’s in shock. Close to it as he can get, anyway.” As they wheeled the gurney to a more private wing for the delicate reconstruction work they would no doubt have to do, McCoy called again, “And get him to drink some water!”

The doors closed behind them. The medical officer, Donovan, did as he had been instructed.

Spock sat carefully, perched on the edge of a chair, and sipped at the glass he had been given.

He needed to meditate; his thoughts were growing increasingly troubling and worrisome.

And yet-- perhaps with more evaluation he could find the moment he had gone wrong and allowed this to happen.

He had time, after all, to wait.

Removing his communicator from his belt and setting the glass on the floor beside the leg of his chair, he placed a call.

“Spock to bridge,” he said, his voice still strange and distant, “Captain Kirk is currently indisposed due to injury. I find I am-- currently unable to assume command in his stead. I relinquish command to Lieutenant Sulu for the time being. Please note the date and time in the ship’s log.”

The room had been circular… the woman, Jurgheree had been seated in the center of the arc of the dias…

He let his mind wander, reviewing the situation again and again.

The hours passed.

 

* * *

 

Nyota stood frozen in place long after Spock had left the room, a faint trembling in her limbs. The air around her felt cold and far too still, far too quiet for the feelings overtaking her. She wanted to cry; to scream her frustration and guilt in any language she could think of.

She was vaguely aware of the security team behind her, as uncertain as she was of what to do next. One by one, they trickled out of the room; she remained.

Jim’s blood was on her hands. If she had done her research more carefully, if she had looked deeper into the intricacies of Cri’lon culture, maybe she could have--

“Lass?” Scotty’s soft voice broke through her self deprecating thoughts. “It might be best if we leave the transporter pad, don’t you think?”

Glancing down she realized that he was right; she had yet to leave the transporter pad, her feet firmly fixed where they had landed when they rematerialized. She didn’t know how long it had been. Shakily, she took a step forward. Then another. Her legs supported her through sheer force of will and training.

Scotty came forward to meet her, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder.

“What happened, Nyota?”

With a dry sob, she told him everything, how the Cri’lons had been offended by every move they made, how they may as well have been doomed from the start.

“It all happened so fast, Scotty, we-- Kirk can be a pain in the ass on his best day, but-- he didn’t even _do_ anything and they--” she was rambling. She forced herself to stop speaking, letting her eyes fall closed with a sigh. A tear leaked from the corner of her eye down her face, and she swiped it away angrily. What right did she have when Jim was-- but the tears fell freely now, and with a scoff of disgust she brought a hand to her eyes.

Scotty would have none of it. “Hush now,” he soothed, drawing her into an embrace. “This is our Jim we’re talking about. Takes more than a little injury to take down Captain Kirk; we know this!”

“Scotty, you didn’t see--”

“Whatever it is, he’ll be alright--”

“Scotty,” he wasn’t hearing her, wasn’t grasping the severity of the situation, and in her frustration she spit out the words much more angrily than she meant to. “They cut out his tongue.”

Scotty’s optimistic grin slid from his face with almost comical speed. Looking distinctly nauseated, he croaked out, “T-they--? Will he-- I mean, can Doctor McCoy--?”

With a helpless shrug, she answered honestly.

“I don’t know.”

 

* * *

 

 

He woke slowly, his eyes refusing to open and his breathing growing increasingly difficult as he fought against the fog threatening to pull him back under at any moment. The sharp, fluorescent lighting of medical was oddly reassuring as he came to; if he was on the _Enterprise_ and conscious, things couldn’t be too terrible.

He swallowed heavily, his throat aching and dry, and was met with a wave of pain-- dull and muted from whatever cocktail of drugs Bones no doubt had him pumped full of-- as he did so. Speak of the devil…

As his vitals spiked from the pain and from his gradual awakening, the monitors nearby emitted a rhythmic and altogether far too bright sounding tone to alert the medical staff. It brought Bones running.

“You’re awake,” he said, his breath escaping him in a rush and looking too relieved for comfort to see Jim awake and blinking back at him.

But, Jim supposed, Bones _had_ essentially watched him get mutilated fairly recently, so he’d cut him a break.

He waved tiredly with his right hand, his left inundated by IV lines and heartbeat monitors and other wires he wasn’t going to question, giving Bones a small smile to let him know he was ok. He wasn’t about to try talking; not yet anyway. He wasn’t stupid.

They had tried to cut out his tongue, after all.

It nearly brought a burst of hysterical laughter to his throat, and he was grateful that he held it back. The weight of his tongue, however damaged, resting against the bottom of his mouth was reassuring; at least they hadn’t succeeded. He let his head flop back against the pillow, still drowsy.

Bones approached his bedside swiftly, fingers tapping over the monitors as he began their usual routine of questioning. The familiarity of it was comforting, even as the pain steadily grew in small increments with each passing moment.

“How ya feelin’?”

Jim watched Bones puttering around the room, tracking his motions sluggishly. He was intentional in his actions but clearly unnerved. He glanced back at Jim for his response. Jim waved a hand back and forth. So-so.

“Anything hurt?”

Jim nodded slowly gesturing to his lower face. Of course it hurt.

“Ok, ok,” Bones conceded, having caught his eye roll. “fair ‘nough. I’ll get you some pain meds in just a sec-- anything else you need?”

Jim began to shake his head before changing his mind. Pressing his fingers together, he mimed writing in the air, a silent request which Bones understood, passing him a PADD as he prepped a hypospray.  

Tilting his head cooperatively for the meds, he tapped at the screen haphazardly, wincing at the slight sting of the hypo before passing the PADD back to Bones to read.

_What happened?_

Bones’ expression fell.

“Do-- Jim how much do you remember?”

Jim blinked in surprise at the sudden melancholy and waved impatiently for the PADD to be returned to him.

_I know what happened to me. What happened to the crew? How did we get out of there?_

Bones looked markedly relieved as he pulled up a chair, leaning forward with his knees on his elbows as he spun the ring on his little finger in anxious circles. Jim watched it glint in the light.

“We fucked up,” Bones sighed, the statement sounding oddly heavy, almost like a confession. “We went in too blind. The air-- we’re still not sure what kind of chemical warfare they’re waging down there, but it got into your bloodstream and fast. You notice a headache while we were planetside? Any dizziness?”

Jim nodded; he had assumed it to be stress related right up until he couldn’t control his damn mouth. He typed as much to Bones, wrenching a small smile from him.

“It lowered your inhibitions, that’s for sure. You were a bit more loose-lipped than usual. I don’t think it would have been a problem if-- well… you know. The Cri’lons weren’t such pricks.”

Jim snorted a laugh through his nose.

_You are truly a master of speech, Bones._

He was expecting Bones to snark right back at him, fall into their usual bantering routine once it had been established that Jim was ok, but his expression remained strained and more than a little concerned. Jim reached out, clapping him on the shoulder gently and giving him a little nudge.

Bones met his eye with a frustrated sigh. Jim raised his eyebrows in question.

_What’s up?_

Bones reached up to grasp his wrist, determination in his tone as he said, “You’re _going_ to talk again, Jim.”

Jim blinked. Using his good hand, he responded, _Wasn’t really doubting it, to be honest._

Bones nodded. “Good, ‘s good,” he mumbled distractedly. Jim took a moment to look him over.

There were dark circles under his eyes, and little lines of stress around his mouth that only appeared when he wasn’t sleeping well and more than a little worried about something. He had yet to release Jim’s wrist, and had barely met his eye since he came in.

What on earth could Bones possibly be feeling guilty over?

He typed quickly and tilted the PADD towards the doctor, who continued staring ahead, clearly distracted by his own thoughts. Jim snapped his fingers on his free hand to get Bones’ attention.

Bones startled slightly and glanced at him apologetically before scanning the words.

_You’re not lying to me, are you?_

Bones looked affronted. “‘Course not, Jim,” he insisted, “I’d never--”

Jim stopped his rambling with a quick wave of his hand.

_Then everything’s fine._

“But you--”

Jim gave him a little shake with the hand still clasped against his shoulder, knowing Bones could read him better than anyone ever had. He let his expression speak: I’m _fine._

It wasn’t often he was the one comforting Bones; the doctor was so strong and independent, vastly more mature than Jim was and usually more than capable of watching out for himself. That wasn’t to say there hadn’t been moments, incidents throughout their friendship where Jim had taken the role of caretaker, but they had been few and far between. He let Bones sit, clutching at his wrist and absently wringing his arm, not painful, but repetitive and-- he hoped-- reassuring for his friend.

After a few moments, Bones sighed heavily, some of the tension bleeding out of his shoulders. “It was bad, kid,” he said quietly. “I won’t go into details now but--- I ain’t never seen you like that before. You were in _so_ much pain--”

Jim squeezed his shoulder. _I’m fine._

“I knew you were off the second when beamed down…I should have--”

Jim shook him to stop him continuing that line of thought, shaking his head and leveling him with a reproachful look.

Bones released his wrist and leaned back in his chair, scrubbing a hand over his five o’clock shadow roughly and clearing his throat as Jim let his hand fall back to the bed.

“Sorry--- just--- ‘s been a long night.” He cleared his throat again. “Anyway, you were asking how we got out of there?”

Jim nodded.

“Arlow wasn’t being watched as closely as the rest of us-- didn’t pay as much attention to her ‘cuz she’s so little and looked about damn near ready to cry. Got off a lucky shot and brought down the high ruler. The distraction was enough for Spock to get his guards loose and he and Uhura took care of the rest while I called for a beam out and took care of you.”

Jim made a mental note to give Arlow the proper accolades for her quick thinking once he was back on duty. Hell, the entire party deserved commendations for their actions.

He let the silence linger for a few moments before typing out another question.

_So, what’s the plan?_

He gestured to his mouth again as he passed the PADD over.

“The surgery went well,” Bones answered, slipping into doctor mode as he scratched at his chin. “It wasn’t a full amputation, so we still had room to work with tissue repair and nerve reconnection. You lost a lot of blood, but that’s been handled. Everything looks great, should heal up the rest of the way on its own no problem. I want to watch the nerve responses for a few days and I’m gonna keep you here at least two more nights for regen treatments and nutrients--” he broke off apologetically. “I don’t want you trying any oral consumption for a few days at least. If that’s gonna be a problem--”

Jim waved him off with a minor shake of his head.

“You sure? I can--”

Jim shot him a look.

“Ok,” Bones relented, raising his hands in surrender. “But you let me know if it becomes an issue.”

Jim gave him a thumbs up, fighting back a yawn. Hazy as he was with all the pain meds coursing through his system, he still wanted to avoid the uncomfortable stretch and pull of muscle.

“You should be able to talk by the end of the week, if all goes well, but… we’re gonna take it easy. I don’t want to accidentally damage any of the tissue repair with the kind of muscle movement that comes with waggin’ your tongue around-- including yawning.” Jim had surrendered to the exhaustion over taking him and yawned involuntarily through clenched teeth.  “Be careful, you hear?”

Jim waved his fingers until the PADD was passed back to him, his eyelids feeling heavier with each passing moment.

_Sounds good. Now go get some rest. Captain’s orders. I’m fine. Promise-- and thank you._

Bones raised his eyebrow, the hint of a smirk crossing his face.

“Alright, alright. We could both use some rest… but you realize that you’re off duty and I outrank you right now?”

Jim threw a pillow at him.


	3. Chapter 3

Spock had returned to his quarters-- at Dr. McCoy’s instruction, or so he was informed-- after being evaluated by one of the available medical personnel not tending to the Captain’s surgery. He had acquiesced to the suggested treatment of sustenance and rest, but had politely declined the offer of a sedative compliant with his biology.

He had returned to his quarters and had spent the following several hours in meditation until his thoughts ceased their frantic pursuit of an answer, a reason for the events of the day. Despite the sentient desire for reason, there were times, he had to admit, when there simply was none to be found.

Jim had not deserved what had happened to him.

And yet it had occurred.  

He would do his best to make peace with the fact.

He returned to medbay the morning of the second day following their beam up, when he was certain that the surgical portion of the reparations had been completed and Dr. McCoy would have had ample time to rest himself after such a task. Sulu had maintained control of the bridge in his absence, and he was grateful for it. He felt much more in control of himself than he had immediately following their beam aboard. He was eager to evaluate the captain’s status for himself.

He entered the wing silently, making his way immediately to the captain’s bedside. He had assumed that Jim would be unconscious still; he was proven wrong.

Jim sat not entirely upright, but not fully reclined, back resting on a small stack of pillows and PADD in hand. He scrolled every few moments as his eyes scanned the screen.

“It was my understanding,” Spock began, startling Jim who jumped and dropped the PADD in shock,” “that you were not on duty and therefore not to be working.”

Jim smiled at him in greeting, retrieving the PADD he had dropped and turning it to show him the screen which displayed a novel, though Spock did not try to ascertain which one.

With a swipe of his finger, Jim minimized the novel and pulled up another screen onto which he typed, _Not working. Doctor’s orders._ His smile turned distinctly smug as Spock read, inordinately proud of himself for following the simple instructions.

“I am pleased to hear it,” he replied, drawing his arms behind his back and wrapping the fingers of his right hand loosely around his left wrist. “You need rest.”

Jim twisted his lips into a skeptical smirk, clearly meant to imply that he disagreed with that statement, before patting the bedside in an invitation to sit.

Spock retrieved a chair from nearby and perched lightly on the edge, keeping a respectable distance between himself and the captain so as to allow Jim his own space.

“You seem to be in good spirits,” he said quietly, breaking the slightly awkward silence between them. It was unusual to be interacting with a non-verbal Jim Kirk; while they had little difficulty communicating in glances and subtle gestures when necessary, the casual setting made his silence uncomfortable and made Spock feel uneasy.

If only he had done something more. Despite his meditation, he found himself ill at ease with the circumstances, and his lack of preventative action. He shifted minutely in his seat, smoothing out a wrinkle in the fabric of his trousers as he did so.

Jim smiled, the corners of his eyes lifting as he tapped away at the screen of the PADD.

_Good bed. Bones has me on the good drugs. Can’t complain._

Spock nodded, refusing to acknowledge the remark about the quality of medication the captain was receiving. After another long silence, he remarked, “I am pleased to see you are recovering well. I regret--”

Jim threw himself back against his pillows dramatically, halting Spock’s apology as he trailed off in confusion.

With a roll of his eyes, expression loose enough for Spock to know he was not truly upset, Jim typed another message.

_Not you too._

Spock frowned in confusion.

“Captain, I am afraid I do not understand.”

Jim typed quickly, his frustration becoming more evident as he did so. After several moments, he shook his head, holding down his index finger against the screen and deleting the words he had written. He tapped out a much shorter message before turning the screen to Spock.

_It’s going to take too long to explain it. If you’re ok with it…_

Spock blinked as he re-read the message.

“Forgive me, Captain,” he began, “I am afraid I still do not--” but he trailed off as he raised his eyes and found Jim watching him, his arm extended to Spock against the soft blue of the bedsheets, his expression hopeful, yet patient. Looking pointedly at Spock’s hand, he nodded to the exposed skin of his forearm, bringing two fingers of his other hand to his temple as he did so.

“You-- you wish to share your thoughts?” Spock inquired. “Are you certain this is--”

Rolling his eyes and moving slowly so as to give Spock every opportunity to refuse if he wished, Jim reached out and plucked up his arm by the sleeve, carefully avoiding skin to skin contact until Spock himself initiated it. Touched by the captain’s trust in him, Spock cautiously lowered his hand to Jim’s arm.

He was met with a rush of positive emotion which momentarily overwhelmed him. He had known the captain was not angry with him, nor with any of them, but the strength of his compassion for them was disorienting and it took Spock several moments to brush past it and dive deeper into the other prevalent feelings. Trust. Concern. Something akin to forgiveness.

But why should he be forgiven? Why when he had failed the captain so with his lack of attentiveness to his condition and to the customs of the Cri’lon race? Why when his oversights had caused this?

_A vision of the captain struggling to remain upright on his knees as blood poured from his mouth, pooling beneath him and staining the stone below._

_Nyota’s soft cry as she stood motionless on the transporter pad, seeking to comfort and to be comforted as he walked away._

_Horrid, choking sounds of pain as Jim writhed on the biobed._

_What if he never spoke again?_

_What if--_

A choked exhalation from Jim startled him from his thoughts and he snatched his hand away quickly, severing the connection clumsily and eliciting a gasp of discomfort from the captain.

“Forgive me, Captain. I am-- not sufficiently rested enough to maintain the connection.”

A falsehood, one that Jim certainly saw through if his look of concern was any indication. Surely he had felt the depth of Spock’s turmoil.

Shaking his head, Jim reached for the PADD, but Spock stood abruptly and turned on his heel.

“I must attend to my duties. I shall return at a later time. You should rest, Captain.”

He continued onward, ignoring the feeling of Jim’s eyes on him, beckoning him to return.

He would have continued directly out of medical and back to the bridge had a gruff southern drawl not interrupted his progress.

 

* * *

 

 

Len had already been on his way to check on Jim and up his pain meds before starting another round of regen, but the notification on his PADD that Jim’s vitals had spiked briefly certainly hurried him along.

He heard Spock before he saw him, his voice pitched lower than usual and oddly frantic, for a Vulcan, his words coming out fast and too flat to be truly sincere. Pausing with a glance at the screen of his PADD, he noted that Jim’s vitals had stabilized after their brief increase a few moment before and made the decision to give the captain and first officer a few more moments together. Spock was clearly out of sorts over the whole thing, as they all were, and it would do him some good to see that Jim really was going to be ok.

As much as Len hated to admit it, he was worried about the Vulcan. It wasn’t like him to avoid medical evaluation, yet Len hadn’t seen hide or hair of him since he had instructed Donovan to see to Spock while he rushed Jim off to surgery a few days back. He’d sent multiple request for Spock to stop by medbay for a check in, but Spock had never showed. Len hadn’t spent too much time worrying over it, too occupied with Jim’s treatment and making sure the kid would regain full mobility and use of his tongue, but now that he stopped to think it over, it struck him how wrong it was. Spock didn’t do this; avoiding medical didn’t fall into the “logical” category in his brain, so he always came when called and endured whatever treatment he was prescribed, no matter how minor the issue. He was the polar opposite of their captain in that respect, and too damn like him in others. Between the two of them, Len was sure his grey hair count grew daily.

Regardless, he was here now, and Len would be damned if he let the Vulcan out of his sight without giving him a once over first. He heard Spock preparing to leave, and stepped forward into his path just before he made it to the door.

“There you are, Spock! Been trying to get you here for hours… wanted to check you over myself before you resume your duties.”

Spock stopped dead in his tracks, blinking at Len like he had never seen him before while Jim shot Len a grateful look from his bed. Pointy eared fella was more out of it than he thought.

“Doctor… forgive me, I was unaware that you had requested my presence--”

“Bullshit,” he scoffed. “Well, you’re here now. Let’s get this over with.”

“Doctor, I really must make my way to the bridge--”

“My office, please,” Len interrupted, not giving Spock any more opportunities to avoid him. He turned and made his way to his office, smirking when he heard the footsteps in his wake.

He opened the door to his office, punching in his access code and standing aside as Spock entered before him.

“Take a seat,” he instructed, still standing in the door frame. “I have to check on Jim real quick. Can I trust you to still be here when I get back, or should I call Chapel to come watch you?”

Spock stared blankly at him, but Len knew he was peeved by the comment. “I do not require supervision.”

“We’ll see,” Len replied dryly, eyeing the Vulcan as he lowered himself hesitantly into a chair. “Gimme twenty minutes.”

He left Spock and made his way back to Jim’s bedside where the younger man was typing furiously at his PADD. Len extended a hand for it as he checked the monitors, feeling it slap against his palm a few moments later.

He glanced at it, skimming the words before replying, “I’ll make sure he’s ok. You in any pain?”

Jim shook his head, opening and closing his fingers in a childish request for the PADD back.

“Just a second,” Len muttered, tapping in the command for another round of pain meds to be administered through Jim’s IV; he had set up a schedule so that medication wouldn’t ever fully wear off until Jim had healed to an acceptable level. He could handle the kid being a bit sore, but they still had a few days of regen yet. The nerves were still sensitive and healing, and his pain receptors would be working overtime to reconnect the signals. It was bound to cause more than a little discomfort without medicinal aid, and Len wasn’t going to let Jim sit in agony for however many days it took for the tissue repair to be completed.

He moved throughout the room, gathering up the supplies he’d need.

Turning from the monitors, he set the PADD down on a nearby rolling tray as he donned a pair of gloves and said, “Open up.”

Jim, looking put out that his request for his tablet had been denied, pursed his lips in a pout before doing as Len asked.

Grabbing a penlight, Len gently took hold of Jim’s chin, tilting his head back and up to examine the healing wound. He smirked as Jim pointedly looked him full in the face as he did so; most patients got ridiculously uncomfortable when he looked anything over in the head regen, not sure where to look or what to do. Jim was no different but he had made it a mission to try to make Len as uncomfortable as he was anytime he looked in Jim’s nose or eyes or mouth, making full eye contact or as close to it as he could get while Len looked him over.

He was healing nicely, considering his tongue had been almost completely severed. The cut had spanned 82% of the width of his tongue, cutting through the muscle and blood vessels. It hadn’t been a clean cut, either, but rough and crooked; the blade had more torn than cut. They were lucky his frenulum hadn’t been severed; they’d be dealing with a hell of a lot more mobility issues if it had. He could regenerate tissue cells, reconnect blood vessels and nerves, hell, modern medicine allowed him to regrow muscle as needed, but recreating organ support? That was easier said than done, and the physical therapy would have been hell. Too long or too short and they’d either have to start from scratch or reteach Jim how to speak. Much better for them all that it had been avoided entirely.

Two days of regen treatments had worked wonders; there were still sutures holding the organ together as they could only do so much regeneration in a sitting, but the cut grew shallower with each session and there wasn’t any infection that he could see. It was still raw and inflamed, and without the pain meds he was sure it would hurt like a bitch, but Len was confident that with a few more days of treatment, Jim would make a full recovery.  

He was still on intravenous fluids and nutritional supplements until they reached that point.

Len  finished his visual examination, releasing Jim’s chin and asking, “Ok. You ready for another round of regen?”

Jim pulled a face; he hated the removal of the stitches. And the regenerator. And the reapplication of the stitches. Len had triple and quadruple checked that he couldn’t feel a lick of it, but the kid had informed him that it was more knowing what was happening than actually feeling it. Wasn’t much to be done about that; he couldn’t have the regen healing the tissue around the sutures.

“I know, I know,” Len said sarcastically, retrieving the nearby cart, “but if you’re a good patient maybe later I’ll read you a bedtime story.”

Jim rolled his eyes.

Len grabbed the stitch scissors and set to work. Jim kept himself still as best he could while Len cut and removed the sutures before retrieving the regenerator wand. He activated it and ran the beam in gentle passes over Jim’s tongue, watching as the cut grew shallower with each wave and murmuring consolations whenever Jim got uncomfortable enough to fidget.

The treatment was quicker than the first few, with the damage so reduced, but Len wanted to redo the stitches to be on the safe side. He told Jim as much, and received a throaty groan in response.

“I know, kid,” he said apologetically as he prepared the needle. He worked quickly, eager to have it over with and let Jim get back to resting. Tapping guaze against Jim’s tongue he murmured, “It’s not bleeding hardly at all anymore. That’s good.”

Satisfied, he released Jim’s chin, letting the blond close his mouth and continue his mission to get his PADD back as he instantly resumed with his grabby hands.

“Alright,” he groused, peeling off his gloves and depositing them in a nearby disposal chute. “You can have your toy back. I swear, you’re no better than Jo.”

As expected, Jim lit up at the mention of Len’s little girl, and Len couldn’t hold back a smile as he handed over the PADD.

_How is she?_

“She’s good, last I heard,” he replied with a shrug, making a note in Jim’s file on his progress and the dosage he administered. “Loves her new teacher and decided she wants a kitten. Joss is thrilled,” he finished sarcastically as he remember his ex snatching the comm from their daughter during their last call to tell him that he was not under _any_ circumstances to encourage that idea.

Jim smirked as he typed again.

_Isn’t Jocelyn allergic to cats?_

Reading it, Len nodded thoughtfully. “Think so.”

_I’m totally getting Jo a cat for her birthday._

Len barked a laugh as he read that one, Jim’s shoulders shaking in time with his.

After a moment, Jim showed him another message.

_Spock’s really not handling this well._

“I know. I’ll talk to him.”

With a pointed look, Jim typed, _You’re not doing so great yourself, doc._

“I’m--” Len began, cutting himself off when he saw Jim’s look. “-- working on it. I think we’re all a little more shook up than usual. But don’t you worry about that. You just let us do the work for a little while and focus on healing.” Changing the subject despite Jim’s already moving fingers, he asked, “You still doing alright with the supplements?”

Jim paused his movements, a frown creasing his forehead as he thought. Len spotted the glimmer of anxiety in his eye even before he raised his hand and wavered it back and forth uncertainly.

“You gonna be ok for another few days, or do we need to look into some other options? There’s not a whole lot we can do, but--”

Jim shook his head hesitantly.

Len watched him carefully. “You sure? I can look into some liquids, maybe--”

Jim shook his head again.

_Talking about it makes me think about it, and thinking about it makes it worse. I’m ok for now._

With a sigh, Len reached out and patted Jim on the leg. “You keep me posted, ok? I know this isn’t ideal. I don’t want it to be any harder for you than it has to be.”

Jim smiled softly at him with a small nod.

“Good,” Len whispered before sighing dramatically. “I’m going to go deal with our blushing green drama queen in there, alright?”

Jim frowned disapprovingly.

_Bones, play nice._

“Yeah, yeah,” he complained. “I’ll try. Lean back, your pain meds are gonna make you drowsy pretty quick here.”

Jim did as he was told, settling back against his pillows and pulling up the novel he’d been working through on his screen.

“Holler if you need anything,” Len said as he made his way back to his office. When he heard Jim shuffling behind him, he called, “If you throw another pillow at me, you’re not getting it back.”

The shuffling ceased.

Spock was still sitting where he had left him, perched awkwardly on one of the chairs in front of his desk and staring at his hands which were folded stiffly in his lap.

“Well look who did as he was told,” Len couldn’t help but snark gently as he entered the office and closed the door behind him, snatching up his tricorder as he went.

Spock glanced up at him. “I will not dignify that with a response.”

Raising his eyes from the tricorder, he responded, “Isn’t that what you just did?”

Spock frowned, pushing himself halfway out of his seat as he began, “Doctor, if we are simply going to--”

“Wait, wait,” Len cut him off, waving for him to sit with his free hand. “I’m sorry, Spock, I’m just messing with you. Please, sit.”

Spock reseated himself as Len scanned him with the tricorder. Minor dehydration, slightly elevated heart rate for a Vulcan, but nothing too out of the ordinary to note.

“You feelin’ ok?” he asked outright, knowing he most likely wouldn’t get a straightforward answer.

Spock eyed him cautiously as he hitched a hip up onto the corner of his desk, crossing his arms against his chest. “I am adequate. And yourself, Doctor? No doubt these past few days have been trying for you.”

Len nodded, dragging a hand down his chin and rubbing aimlessly at his stubble. “It’s been interesting to say the least,” he admitted, hoping Spock might be more forthcoming if he showed some vulnerability as well. “You know, Spock… I’ve been feelin’ guilty about this, too.”

Spock blinked slowly before replying flatly, “As well you should, Doctor.”

Len, taken aback, scoffed lightly before responding, “Excuse me?”

“Is it not,” Spock continued, his voice perfectly neutral despite the accusatory nature of the statement, his eyes once again distant and focused on a point somewhere on the far wall, “your duty as ship’s physician to ascertain the state of the captain and crew before, during, and after away missions? Could you not see that Jim was unwell shortly after we beamed to the planet’s surface? Were you not aware--”

Forcing himself to keep his tone level, Len interrupted.

“I was,” he said, his own guilt seeping into his tone. “I knew somethin’ wasn’t right but I didn’t know _what._ I should have asked him.”

Spock met his eye for the first time. “As should I. It would appear that we are each feeling our share of the blame for the captain’s current state.”

“So it would seem,” Len nodded. “But Spock--”

He didn’t get to finish his sentence; his PADD started chiming loudly, a shrill, repetitive sound that meant Jim had activated his call button.

Jim had _never_ used the call button. Not once.

Len went running.

Spock followed, close on his heels.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry for the wait. Life threw me for a bunch of loops, work got crazy, I traveled a bit, and here we are. It's short, it's messy, but it's something. Thank you for your patience and continued support. I think one more chapter on this one and then it's done.

Jim Kirk was not one to back away from a challenge, but when confronted with the sudden appearance of Lieutenant Nyota Uhura-- who looked pissed as hell-- he was not ashamed to admit that he immediately began searching for a mental escape route from the thorough dressing down he was most likely about to receive. 

She stalked into medbay, glanced quickly around and made a beeline for him. Coming to a halt at the foot of his bed she stared down at him, her gaze clinical as she searched his face for something. When he became uncomfortable enough that he truly couldn’t take her scrutiny anymore, his eyes growing heavy from the meds and the silence, he raised his hand and gave her a little wave, smiling cautiously. 

Her face crumpled and she burst into tears, sudden and frantic and clearly uncontrollable if the way she hid her eyes in embarrassment was any indicator. His own eyes wide, unable to move much and thought processes slowed by whatever Bones had pumped into his system, Jim did what any sane man would do: he called for reinforcements. 

He clumsily slammed his hand on the call button, feeling a brief pang of remorse for the heart palpitations he was likely giving Bones, and set about flapping his arms awkwardly, trying desperately to get her attention and make the crying stop. He was simultaneously desperate to comfort her and wondering what on earth had her so worked up. Surely someone had checked on her after everything, right? 

“I’m s-sorry,” she stuttered out, her usual eloquence faltering under exhaustion and emotional duress, “I’m so,  _ so  _ sorry…” 

And ok, maybe they hadn’t checked on her. Damnit. 

The pounding of feet alerted him to the arrival of Spock and Bones, and he didn’t think he’d ever been so relieved to see them. 

“Jim, what’s--” Bones began, rushing to the monitors as Uhura swept clumsily at her cheeks, trying to pull herself together as Spock crouched next to her chair and murmured to her-- something Jim couldn’t hear. 

He tiredly waved his hand at Bones, gesturing for him to ignore the monitors and pay attention to the crying lieutenant at the foot of his bed. 

“Did you use the call button to--” Bones dragged a hand down his face in irritation. “Goddamnit, Jim, you scared the hell out of me!” 

Shrugging sheepishly, Jim shot him his best apologetic look before once again pointing urgently towards Nyota.  

“What, Jim? What’re you-- oh.” Bones  _ finally _ caught on, and Jim watched him blink in confusion before turning to Uhura, perching a hip on the foot of the bed and reaching out to clasp her shoulder comfortingly. “Hey, now. You alright?” 

“God,” Uhura choked out a sound that was half a laugh and half a sob, “I’m sorry, I’m such a mess. Don’t worry about me-- I’m fine.” 

It was Spock who answered, “Your tears suggest otherwise, Nyota.” 

Jim lay awkwardly against his pillows, unable to chime in and uncomfortable watching the interaction silently when all he really wanted to do was scream out,  _ Can you all stop feeling guilty so loudly?  _ That was probably the drugs talking. 

And speaking of the drugs…

Jim had felt them kicking in as soon as Bones had administered them, but the rush of activity that Uhura’s appearance had brought about had thoroughly drained him of any remaining energy. He had done what he could, getting Spock and Bones in there to take care of her. 

He fell asleep. 

 

* * *

 

Nyota had never felt like more of a nuisance as she did when Leonard gently instructed her to sit down and asked Spock to fetch her a glass of water, her hiccuping sobs continuing over his words as she fought desperately for composure. Lack of sleep was making her ridiculous, and her control over her emotions was lax at best; she should probably have waited a while before coming to see the captain. 

Between sips of water she watched Leonard watching Jim, careful glances from the corner of his eye at the monitors and steady rise and fall of the blond’s chest where he lay. Spock, too, was watching them both carefully, poised and stiff a few feet away with his hands clasped at the small of his back as his eyes darted from the bed to her chair and back again. 

“I guess,” she managed after a long silence, voice breaking only slightly as her breath hitched on lingering sobs, “that we’re all feeling a little out of sorts over this.” 

Leonard scoffed lightly, dragging a hand across his eyes tiredly. “You can say that again.” 

She turned to Spock expectantly, taking in the small lines around his eyes and mouth that pointed to the true depths of his turmoil over their situation. His mask was good; his years on Vulcan had nearly perfected it, but it was in times of true stress that she saw his mother-- his humanity-- in him. His mouth turned down just so, his forehead pinched only slightly. One would have to be a master in reading body language to even notice the changes. Her years of practice and of friendship with him allowed her to read him easily. 

Finally, as she knew he would, he spoke. Softly, he said, confusion on just evident in his tone, “How could we allow this to occur?” 

Instantly she responded, hoping to ease his guilt. “It was my fault. If I had done more thorough research on their customs--” 

“We are all at fault,” Spock interrupted her, his gaze fixed on Jim’s face as he slept. “We can each share some of the blame for what has happened--” 

“Yes, we can,” Leonard cut in. “And we all know it. We did a piss poor job of preppin’ for this one. We got cocky and we slipped up. Maybe we should have read up a bit more. Maybe I should have noticed somethin’ sooner. Maybe they shouldn’t have been able to get the jump on us. Maybe he should have masked up before we beamed down. But tossing blame around isn’t gonna help anything, now is it?” 

Spock nodded slowly as he processed Leonard’s words. “No,” he finally agreed. “It will not.” 

“You’re right,” Nyota murmured, placing her water glass on the ground and swiping a hand beneath her eye to sweep away the moisture that had gathered there. “You’re right. It’s just--” 

“I know,” Leonard replied. “But what’s done is done. Right now, we just gotta focus on helping him get better.” After a moment’s pause, he continued, “If either of you need anything--” he trailed off, letting it hover. 

Nyota reached out a hand, taking his fingers in hers and rubbing a reassuring back and forth across the back of his hand. “Same to you, Leonard. You know where to find me.” 

“I, too, offer my assistance-- should it be of help to either of you,” Spock followed, softly. 

In the silence of the room-- broken only by the soft sounds of the monitors and the slight exhalations from Jim’s sleeping form-- their guilt lessened.

 

* * *

 

 

The days passed. Jim’s tongue recovered with each round of regeneration and they moved into minor physical therapy, working the muscle slowly and carefully to ensure he had a full range of motion and to strengthen the damaged organ. 

He lasted five days on the intravenous nutrition before the anxiety became too much and he broke down and asked Len if they could attempt some soft foods. 

Through the shaking and the anxious breathing, as Len tried to calm him down and reassure him that they would try, Jim spoke his first word. It was stilted and stiff, and he slurred on the first syllable, but it was a word. 

_ Please.  _

That was more than enough to spur him into action, and he called for Chapel to see what she could wrangle up in terms of a smoothie. The resulting concoction, green and soupy but filled with protein, she assured him, seemed to do the trick, and Jim lit up like a kid on Christmas as Len handed him the spoon. He didn’t dare risk a straw for fear that the suction would be too much of a strain on the healing muscle, which was still tender. 

Jim managed the entire smoothie, slowly and carefully, savoring the cool liquid in his mouth if only for the fact that it was something of substance that he could physically consume. Len was happy to oblige when he saw the anxiety drain from the blond in increments with each swallow. 

Of course, it wasn’t enough to supplement his nutritional needs, and Len regretfully informed him that the IV would have to stay in for another few days. 

“But,” he said, as Jim sulked. “Good news. I think we’re just about ready to try talking.” 

He was expecting this news to perk Jim up, to ignite that classic Kirk fire and drive that pushed him to do the impossible again and again. He was not expecting for Jim to tense minutely, set his jaw and nod stiffly. 

“Jim?” he asked hesitantly. “What’s goin’ on in that head of yours?” 

Jim shook his head, eyes fixed on his hands in his lap. Len sat on the edge of the bed and crossed his arms over his chest. 

“I can’t help unless you let me know what’s up,” he pressed, nudging Jim’s leg with his hip. “So what’s up?” 

With a sigh and a glare, Jim picked up the PADD that was always at his side and typed out a halting reply. 

_ You heard me a few minutes ago. What if I can’t?  _

Len scoffed. “You can, and you will. End of story.”

Jim stared blankly at him, doing his best to appear unamused, but Len saw the glint of laughter in his eye and nudged him again. Jim looked away, but another pointed nudge broke a smirk from him as he laughed softly. 

Len was just glad to be hearing his voice, even in such a small way. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And with that, this one comes to a close. Thank you so much for your patience, I truly appreciate it! 
> 
> A big thank you to Jimkrikachu over on tumblr for giving this chapter a quick proofread and making sure it made some form of sense. 
> 
> Thank you all for your continued support! I truly appreciate it!

The days turned into weeks. The captain’s injuries had long since healed and yet, he spoke very little if at all. He returned to duty, schedule altered slightly to allow for continued check-ins and physical therapy, but beyond the usual bridge commands and an occasional reply to a direct question, he was silent. It was disconcerting to see the usually talkative man so quiet, and Spock found that he did not like it at all. 

To his own surprise, he missed the clever quips and witty remarks, the borderline insubordinate commentary when they received new communications from Starfleet in regards to their status and progress, and even the obvious and mundane quips and comments Jim often made to tease the crew. 

Nyota, too, was distressed by Jim’s continued voicelessness, and it perturbed Spock to see the slump of her shoulders as yet another suggestive comment-- the perfect window to begin their typical banter-- went unanswered. She often gave such opportunities of late, no doubt hoping for a return to past normalcy with Kirk. Though Spock himself had never quite understood the strange, falsely inflammatory relationship the two shared, he knew better than to think there was any real hostility there. 

He watched as the days passed by and the captain grew yet more withdrawn from his friends, his refusal to speak discouraging to them all. He watched as dark circles began to form under Jim’s eyes and his hands began to shake minutely, his shoulders slumped with fatigue and his smiles not quite reaching his eyes. 

And he wondered what he was missing. 

There was no lingering trauma; Dr. McCoy had confirmed it himself on numerous occasions. The physical therapy had done well in restoring muscle control, and there should have been no remaining damage at all. Jim had spoken a word here and there, and there had been nothing to indicate that it was difficult for him to do so.

So why would Jim not speak? 

 

* * *

 

“Fourth report this week of ‘concern for the captain’, Jim,” Len drawled as the blond entered his office. He signed off on a report, sending it back to Chapel with a flick of his finger before he set down the PADD and met Jim’s eye. “You going to explain to me why you aren’t talking yet? There’s no impaired muscle function, no nerve damage… physical therapy’s been going great. And you and I both know that you  _ can _ talk.” He leaned back in his chair as Jim seated himself opposite, separated by the desk between them. “So why won't you?” 

Jim shrugged lightly, crossing his legs where he sat. “I talk,” he replied after a moment. 

Len eyed him clinically, pursing his lips with a frown. “Not nearly as much as you used to. You’re freakin’ everybody out, kid. Time was we couldn’t get you to shut up and now getting more than four words at a time out of you is a chore.” Jim huffed a laugh, smiling; Len couldn’t help but smirk back. “Any pain? Trouble with forming words? What’s going on?” 

Jim shook his head in reply, “No, no trouble, just--” he trailed off for a moment, his brow furrowed slightly. “It’s a learning experience, isn’t it?” 

Len raised an eyebrow at him in question. Jim waved his hands as he searched for the words he wanted. “There are these moments,” he began, “when… I don’t know, it’s like something shifts.”

“Something…  _ shifts _ ?” Len asked, blinking in confusion. “Like… a tendon or--? Jim, if you feel like there’s something wrong--”

“No, no,” Jim waved him off, gaze focused on a point somewhere to his left. “Nothing physical, it’s… look, it’s like when the  _ Narada _ happened-- I had no idea what I was doing, but I had to step up and get my people home safe, right? So… I did what I had to do.” Jim paused, swallowing as his throat ran dry after so many words. “This is kind of like that. I do what I have to do to try to keep everyone safe. And-- I’ll admit it-- I fucked up this time.” 

He was silent for a few moments, nodding his head slightly in an unconscious agreement with himself. Len waited for him to continue. 

“I fucked up-- because I don’t listen very well. Never have,” he smirked, meeting Len’s eye. Len scoffed at the understated remark; Jim’s smile faded and he became serious once more. “You told me to wear that mask beaming down-- and I heard you, I swear. It just-- slipped my mind. I was so excited to get down there and start the negotiations and be ‘Captain Kirk’--”

“Jim--”

“--and I skipped a step. Uhura briefed me on the culture and the dynamics of their hierarchy-- but looking back I don’t know that I’d be able to tell you half of what she said.” He shook his head minutely, his tone even. “Spock told me to be careful, you told me, everyone told me, but I--” 

“Jim,” Len cut him off softly. “There was something in the air down there… we tested it after-- you know this. We’ve talked about this. The memory loss, disorientation, talking out of line? That was all because--” 

“I know,” Jim interjected, quietly. “But that doesn’t negate the fact that I skipped a step.” He leaned back in his chair. “It was a mistake-- an honest mistake… and wipe that look off your face, I’m  _ fine.  _ This isn’t a ‘pity me, I fucked up’ thing, it’s just… I had a lot of time to think. I can’t afford to make mistakes like that. This stuff can’t keep happening, this… what do you call it? ‘Reckless endangerment’?” 

“Jim--”

“I have to do better than that,” Jim carried on, ignoring Len’s interruption. “The crew deserves better. You all deserve better,” he finished, looking at Len with a hint of something pleading in his eye. “I’ve never been a great listener-- but I’m trying now.” 

Len let out a long sigh, pressing his lips together in a thin line and rubbing at his face with his hands as he, too, leaned back in his chair. 

After a long silence, when it became obvious Jim wasn’t going to speak again without prompting, Len began: “Do you know how proud I am of you?” 

Jim blinked, startled by the non-sequitur and the sudden praise. 

“Here you had me worried there was something that wasn’t healed up right and instead--” he shook his head in fond exasperation. “I get it, kid. I do. But I don’t know that you’re going about it the right way.” 

Standing, he made his way to the replicator in his office and obtained two glasses of water, one of which he passed to Jim who took it gratefully with a nod before taking a few sips. After taking a sip of his own, Len continued. 

“You’re right, you should have worn the mask,” he said, just a hint of irritation leaking through in his tone. “But that was the only mistake you made. The rest of it was-- shit, it was a combination of bad luck, bad timing, and lack of information. You did the best you could with what you had. You always do.” 

Jim eyed him searchingly, waiting for the rest. 

“Listening to your people-- accepting help and input from the crew and people with more experience than you? That’s always a good idea, kid. That’s how you get better, it’s how we grow-- hell, it’s how we stay alive out here. But refusing to give your own input? That’s not fair either.” Jim had his eyes locked on Len’s, and Len knew he had Jim’s full attention. “You been paying any attention to morale around here lately? Everyone’s moping around here like they’re the ones that broke you and they’re never gonna be happy again. You’re the captain, Jim! You’re the one they look to for guidance, for inspiration, for answers-- don’t shake your head at me, you know damn well it’s true and you’re too damn smart to pretend otherwise.” 

Jim hung his head with a sigh. “So what do I do?” 

“You find a balance,” Len answered, leaning forward to make sure his point was driven home. “You take the input and the knowledge that other people have to offer you into consideration-- you slow down and make informed decisions. You  _ don’t... _ stop talking. I put too damn much work into fixing your mouth for you to suddenly stop running it.” And then, looking over Jim’s shoulder to the door, “Isn’t that right, Mr. Spock?” 

Len almost laughed at the look on Jim’s face as he turned and saw his first officer hovering in the doorway, hands behind his back as per usual and silently observing the conversation; he was able to refrain, but only just. 

“I am in agreement with the doctor, Captain,” the Vulcan nodded. “While there are benefits to occasional silence, I find that from you this prolonged voicelessness is… concerning.” 

Jim chuckled softly, turning his torso to face Spock more fully. “Jeez, Spock, warn a guy,” he scolded lightly. 

“Apologies, Captain,” Spock replied dryly. “It was not my intent to startle you. The doctor summoned me, but I felt it would be wise not to interrupt what appeared to be a very important conversation.” 

“The doctor summoned-- Bones!” Jim whirled back to face Len with affront. 

Len simply shrugged, nonchalant. “Sometimes I can’t get through your thick skull. Thought it might be best to have him on hand just in case. We all  _ know _ he can knock some sense into you if he has to.” 

Jim shook his head and rolled his eyes, amusement plain on his face. 

“I--” Jim sighed. “I appreciate it. I do. But it’s gonna take some time for me to find the balance. If we’re being perfectly honest, I’m still a little… unsettled by everything.” 

“Shit, kid,” Len began, even as Spock said: 

“I think we are all in agreement with that sentiment, Captain.” 

“Look,” Len continued. “I think we’re all a little shaken up still. Seeing you like that…” he broke off and reconsidered his words. “What happened wasn’t pretty. Or easy to deal with. We’re all coping, in our own strange ways. Take all the time you need. We’re here-- but don’t shut us out.” 

Jim nodded quietly and stared down at his hands in his lap. 

Len met Spock’s eye with a slight nod of thanks for responding to his call. When he had asked Jim to meet him for a follow up after receiving the reports from the crew-- “the captain is unusually silent these days”, “Captain Kirk seems to be a tad distracted… is he alright?”-- he hadn’t expected Jim to be so willing to discuss whatever was holding him back and had anticipated needing the extra support Spock would be able to provide. 

He would never understand it... the strange, steady companionship between the two. Jim and Spock had started out with bad blood and a growing list of animosities, and somehow through it all they had become fast friends and close confidants. Len saw the effect Spock’s support had on Jim-- the subtle changes towards the mature and confident captain he had always known the kid was capable of becoming-- and the strength Jim took from having the more experienced officer on his team. 

Len’s friendship was invaluable to Jim, he knew that well enough, but there were times when Spock’s clinical and logic-based statements of fact held more weight than Len’s --occasionally desperate-- pleas for Jim to hear what he was saying and take it to heart. The kid was too used to people not caring whether he lived or died and was still treading the water of captaincy, learning that his actions had consequences that reached beyond him and that sometimes, despite his best efforts, things were out of his control. 

And Len couldn’t always help him with that. He could talk Jim’s ear off-- had done on more than one occasion-- telling him that he was too hard on himself, but it would often go in one ear and out the other. Their friendship -- in Jim’s mind-- made him biased. 

Having someone whose entire worldview was based solely on the grounds of logic and objective evaluation tell Jim whether or not he was right or wrong about something made Jim  _ listen _ , and for that, Len was thankful. 

Jim nodded, a wordless expression of gratitude for their support. 

“I’m working on it,” he said softly. “And I appreciate it. Thank you.” 

“You need not fear coming to us with concerns or to seek guidance, Jim. While I am not as… adept as Dr. McCoy in some matters, I assure you I will strive to do my best to offer whatever you need.” 

Jim glanced up at Spock with a soft smirk. “Thank you, Mr. Spock.” 

There was silence between them for a long moment. Finally, Spock interrupted the quiet with a short, “I shall return to the bridge. If you require my assistance, please let me know. Captain,” he nodded in farewell. “Doctor.” 

As his footsteps receded, Len rose from his chair and stretched, the muscles surrounding his spine extending and the bones popping as he moved. 

“Well, Captain,” he said, “what say you and I go get some dinner and call it a day?” 

Jim stood as well, interlacing his fingers and flexing his shoulders, no doubt stiff with stress and tension. 

As they made their way down the hallway, silence descended once more. Eager to hear Jim speak again, Len nudged his shoulder and said teasingly: 

“When did you get all mature on me? Talking things out, being honest about the hard stuff-- you’re all grown up!” Len joked incredulously. 

Jim shot him an amused glare. “Who said anything about maturity? I just know better than to try to keep anything from you at this point...you’ll force it out of me eventually.” 

Len let out a surprised bark of laughter and threw an arm over Jim’s shoulders as made their way towards the mess. “You’re damn right about that, kid.” 

 

* * *

 

The bridge was a whirl of familiar activity as the lift doors opened and Jim stepped out. 

Hearing the doors open, a few members of the bridge crew turned to face him but lost interest quickly; he had not offered a casual greeting in some time and they did not expect one. A nod or a wave had become the norm. He made his way anxiously towards his chair, trying desperately not to show how nervous he felt. But he had promised that he would try, and he was a man of his word, so he would  _ try.  _ Starting now.

Taking a deep breath, he called out, “Good morning, everyone.” 

With a blinding smile, Chekov whipped around to face him. “Captain on ze bridge!” he cried, even as others responded with a surprised ‘good morning’ of their own. 

Jim forced a smile onto his face as he seated himself, accepting the daily reports handed to him with a smile and a “Thank you.” 

Cautiously optimistic, Sulu asked, “What’s our plan of action, sir?” 

For weeks now, Jim had answered that question the same way. He would quickly read off their latest instruction, or defer to Spock, saying as little as possible before retreating into silence. 

Scanning the report quickly, he read their newest directive. Sensing a presence to his right, he looked up; Spock stood there, gaze fixed straight ahead and hands clasped behind his back, a familiar and steady presence of support. 

After another brief silence, Spock spoke. 

“At your command, Captain,” he prompted softly at Jim’s side. 

With a soft smile of thanks, Jim turned his attention back to the view before them. 

“Steady as she goes, Mr. Sulu. Mr. Chekov, plot a course for Gamma VI. Uhura, keep comms open for incoming transmissions and notify me of any changes. Can we get someone from the sciences department to do an atmospheric scan before we get there?” 

The yeoman sprang to flag someone down and he called a quick, “Thank you, Janice,” before she hit the lift.  

Taking a quick scan of the bridge, Jim caught the small but bright smiles of his crew as they responded to his orders. With a smile of his own, he gave one final command: 

“Punch it.” 

 


End file.
